


And Do This Work of Living

by significantowl



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Home Repair, M/M, Post-Movie, Rebuilding, Reconciliation, Slow Reconcilation, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is much that needs mending at the Xavier property.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Do This Work of Living

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetdawn20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetdawn20/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [And Do This Work of Living by significantowl（中文翻译by芮球）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652074) by [Rachel_Er](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel_Er/pseuds/Rachel_Er)



> For the prompt: "You abandoned me."
> 
> When they first met Erik was the one reluctant to open up completely to Charles because scars had taught him how to build walls. When they meet again at the time of Days of Future Past it's the other way round. Erik is the one who finds hope in Logan's words of a shared future with Charles, the one trying to make amends. And Charles is the one, who is so broken that he's too terrified of letting Erik close again.
> 
> Happy Secret Mutant Madness, sunsetdawn20! I hope you enjoy! Many thanks to Luninosity and Kernezelda for beta. <3

Even in those dull, bare weeks, as autumn faded and died and winter crept in to take its place, the grounds bore signs of neglect from the summers that had come before. Thick-corded vines wound through leafless trees and wrapped chokingly tight around bare trunks. Shriveled bindweed strangled the rose bed, and the blackened remains of spiky Canada thistles still ranged high along the fence, some as tall as a man.

But none so tall as the man who strode up the drive, bare-headed, wearing a sweeping brown duster coat.

"You want him to leave?" A growl threatened around the edges of Hank's voice, rough and angry.

"Oh, yes. I would very much prefer it, yes." But where this man was concerned, wanting was a futile game. Charles sighed, and turned his chair away from the window. “Escort him to the front parlour, if you would.”

It was one of the more presentable rooms. This was in part due to Hank’s recent efforts; the dust lay less thickly here than in many outlying rooms, and the furniture had been tidied and arranged with an eye towards visitors. But it was also because Charles had neglected this room for many years, and during that time his neglect had often been less damaging than his attention. In his study, there were stains on the sofa and rug that would more than likely never come out, courtesy of a great many drinks held in unsteady hands. But the shadows had always fallen cold and long in the parlour, and Charles had never liked it. 

Fitting.

He took up a position in the centre of the room, folded his hands in his lap, and waited.

::

If cold lay at the centre of Erik's mind, if something bitter and loveless waited down in the dark, moments like these would be so much easier. Charles had flung up his walls the second he'd felt the press of Erik's thoughts, before Erik had even made it onto the property, but it was worse now, sharing the same room, breathing the same air. Bricks felt like sand.

"Erik, I'm rather busy, and I can only assume you are as well." Judgement coloured his tone, well-deserved. "Why don't we skip the pretence, and you simply tell me what you're here for?"

"I told you. I thought we might have a game."

Charles blew out a breath and wheeled sharply around to face the window. Better not to see that face. Those lips had shaped apologies the last time they sat over a chessboard, those eyes had held truth, and all along, that mind had decided that Charles' sister should die.

"All right," Erik said, and damn him for sounding so bloody _understanding._ "But will you not offer refreshment to your guest?"

"I will not. I will ask you to leave."

“If you want me to leave badly enough....” A smile curled through Erik's voice, telling Charles they'd come to the heart of it now: this, this was what Erik had truly had been after from the start. “...You'll make me. If not, I'll prepare my own tea."

Charles could imagine the smirk on Erik’s face. _Said you’d never go inside this head again,_ it said. _Already proven you a liar once._

When Erik’s footsteps retreated, when the parlour door gently closed, Charles rubbed at his forehead and managed to make it a full three minutes before contacting Hank.

He rode gently along while Hank moved swiftly down the corridor, tracking Erik to the kitchen. If he wondered why Charles was asking him to trail Erik when Charles could have easily have shadowed Erik’s mind himself, Hank didn’t ask. Trained too well not to question Charles? Or did he already know the answer, was he that well-versed in all of Charles’ weaknesses?

Charles pulled back slightly from Hank at the kitchen door, letting his gaze focus on the cold world outside the window. He had no need to look.

 _He’s put on the kettle_ , Hank thought at Charles. _And now he's going underneath the sink?_ A pause. _He won’t answer me. But I think he might be fixing that leaky pipe._

 _But of course he is_. Charles rubbed his forehead again. _Will you do me another favour, Hank?_ One out of so very many. A lifetime of favours, Logan had given him to understand. _Will you stay with him until he goes?_

_Certainly, Professor._

The sun was sinking now, falling below the trees. Charles waited at the window, wondering if he would be able to make out a shadow on the drive, when it came, or whether it would come it all; would he instead hear a creak at the door. 

He waited, and wondered which he hoped for the most.

::

Weeks later, when Charles felt the too-familiar touch of Erik’s mind again, he kept his back resolutely to the window. Seeing him had been a mistake. Even so briefly, it had been a mistake. The dangers of physicality: faced with the nearness of Erik, the range of his body, the span of his hands, the timbre of his voice, a quiet but undeniable part of Charles had wanted to be touched again. 

_A visitor is approaching,_ Charles informed Hank tightly, _and I do not wish to be disturbed._

He didn't.

His back had been troubling him off and on all day, seizing up with cramps that he could only ride out with gritted teeth. He'd toyed with the idea of lying down several times, but hadn't wanted to set aside his writing, and he was glad now that he hadn't; if Erik was determined to seek Charles' presence, then he would do so. It wasn't an encounter Charles wished to undertake from his bed.

He should have lingered in Hank's mind, of course, to make certain that Hank was risking no harm to himself. But his ears would tell him if there was a struggle, and Hank would enjoy the fight, if Erik gave him one. Charles couldn't begrudge him that.

Removing himself as a witness meant one more moment of peace. Of denial. For one more moment, this was not happening.

Except, surprisingly, the peace lingered. Charles stared at his half-written letter for minute after minute without adding a word, fingers tensing around his pen. No: he was tensing all over, and the spasm that hit him was one of the worst of the day. When Charles had finally breathed through it he gave in and contacted Hank.

 _He's working on the boiler. Apparently it could be heating more efficiently?_ Hank sent back, bemused. _Can we trust him not to blow us up, Professor?_

 _Yes,_ Charles replied wearily, and realized he entirely meant it.

Let Erik play handyman for the soon-to-be school, if that was what he wanted. Let him. If he thought it would annoy Charles, if he thought it would sweeten him up, it didn't matter. Body and mind, Charles was tired, and in pain, and in pain because of Erik. His hands were clenching around his wheels now, pen and paper forgotten, and he let anger propel him out of his study, into his bedroom, and up onto his bed.

Better. His heating pad might make it even more so, but the changed position and altered demands on his muscles were relief enough, and he made no effort to reach for it.

Charles didn't intend to drift to the verge of sleep. Didn't intend to let his mind wander, but it did, catching the touch of something fiercely, unbearably warm before slipping down into the dark.

::

Snow lay on the ground for Erik's next visit, a thin veil of white that went patchy in the sun. Erik wore the same long brown coat, with rust-red flared corduroy trousers beneath it. He stamped snow off his boots when Charles met him at the front door.

Hank was in the middle of an experiment that required close monitoring. Charles could have taken over, he supposed, but it was Hank's baby and he deserved to see it through.

He did _not_ deserve to have all of Charles' dirty work forced upon him. And, if Charles were truthful... Erik's willingness to comply last time - not making a scene, not forcing his way into Charles' presence when he knew it was against Charles' wishes - it had meant something. It brought him to the door.

He said, "And what do you feel compelled to mend today, Erik?" And when Erik’s response was a rueful laugh, Charles surprised himself by letting a smile slip out in return.

"Come along and find out," Erik said then, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. He strode past Charles, bypassed the stairs, and headed directly for the lift tucked into the wall beyond. 

So Charles had no choice but to follow. Because the lift would take Erik down just as easily as it did up, and there were things in the levels below - of which Hank's experiment was only one - that Erik had no business being near.

He didn't have to speak to Erik, though. And for some time, Charles didn't. He sat just inside the bathroom doorway and studied the long slope of Erik's back while Erik crouched, concentrating, beneath the pedestal sink.

And then, quite suddenly, he couldn't take it anymore. "You haven't been tampering with the inner workings of my home, have you? Just to give yourself more projects to undertake?"

Sitting back on his heels, Erik regarded Charles over his shoulder. "Are you accusing me of sabotage, Charles?"

"If the accusation fits."

Erik tapped his temple. "One way to find out," he said, mouth quirking, then turned back to the sink.

Charles had kissed that mouth once, so many years ago. It had been soft and surprisingly giving, and Charles could remember the particular curve of those lips even now, the warmth and the weight.

He raised his eyes to the window. The world outside was cold and pale, and clouds hung heavy above the trees. There ways of forgetting, but the ones he knew best lay down a path he'd promised not to travel anymore. Promised Logan. Promised Hank. Promised himself, on a dark day in a grim future.

He was better off not knowing what truly brought Erik here. His walls were patched and shaky enough; the right words, the right taps at the right pressure points, and they would crumble like so much earth.

Even now, Charles' silence and his continued presence were working against him. Whether Erik took them as an invitation or a sign of weakness didn't matter. He took advantage.

Erik rose to his feet and moved to the old clawfoot tub, eyeing it critically - assessing the taps, Charles assumed, until he suddenly took a seat on its edge. "We work together in the future," he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Your friend with the claws told me that -"

Logan, Charles thought. Logan, my friend that you pierced through with metal and dropped in the Potomac.

"- simply told me, and I believed. You understand what that means, don't you, Charles?" 

Erik had _wanted_ to believe. Charles swallowed dryly. So very Erik, to use his heart as a weapon. 

"But you. I think he did more than tell you. I think you took convincing. He showed you, didn't he? What did you see?"

And self-righteousness to hone the blade. Stunning, considering what Erik had chosen to do whilst all that belief coursed in his veins. Or it would have been if Charles were still capable of being surprised.

"What did I see, Erik? That sometimes we set other matters aside to work together when the stakes are high enough to warrant it." Charles' voice could have cut glass. "And I saw that you, as ever, will pursue your own ends. Whether it was shaped like a bullet or an athletic stadium, I found that rather difficult to miss."

"And yet," Erik said softly. "You still only describe part of a whole."

If Charles closed his eyes, he could be back in that cold room again, the last rays sunlight streaming through stained glass. He could see them again, older, greyer, wiser. Each other's strength and each other's comfort, there at the end of the world. 

But. "This is not the end of the world, Erik. This is a few blocked pipes in a disused lavatory."

"And next it’ll be the broken latch on the French doors out to the third floor terrace. I've no doubt you still go out there, even though with winter drawing in like this you really shouldn’t." Erik stood, and rubbed his hands together briskly. "Shall we?"

Charles was still blocking the doorway. No illusions: he could turn and lead, or he could be trampled.

Erik would call that a choice.

::

It was so late.

Charles wrapped his robe around himself, too hasty to tuck its length neatly beneath him in the chair. He hooked his slippers over his feet before rolling swiftly and silently down the corridor to the lift.

He pressed the button, and went down. Straight down.

Cerebro hummed - it always hummed - but softly, lowly, without Charles at its helm. Ambient blue light filtered up from below, clear and cold as a winter's moon. At the centre of it all, hands clasped behind his back, eyes gazing upwards, stood Erik.

"You're really trying to tempt me into that head of yours, aren't you? You want to be marched off this property? You may finally get your wish."

Erik ignored this. He walked around in a slow circle, neck craned back. "I think there could be some improvements to this machine. Widening your range. Increasing your precision. I think you could do more, Charles."

Charles had been in his bed, sleeping as peacefully as he knew how. It had been cold, and it had been lonely, but cold and loneliness were his old friends by now.

He was so tired. 

"Erik." Weariness was a dull, cold ache, pressing deep into his voice and his bones and his heart. "Why don't you wear your helmet."

"Do I wear it in the future? You tell me."

Charles pressed his fingers to his eyes. But it didn't matter; he could still see it all, Erik as he was now and as he would be then, young tanned face and old lined one, dark hair and silver, and always, always those eyes. Erik had left him once, but those eyes would never let Charles go.

Their path was long and winding, and it stretched so much further than the sea.

"I thought not," Erik said, devastatingly gentle. "Charles. If we know that what lies between us can be mended, why should we not begin the work?"

Slowly, Charles let his hands fall, feeling warmth spread like tendrils, green and growing, working deep into every crack and chip in his walls. Work, he thought. Erik had the right word, and the fact that he had chosen it mattered. Life was work. Love was work. And hope could be the hardest work of all.

 _It's a far cry from a lavatory sink_ , he sent to Erik. His mental voice was wary and shot through with warning, but he still couldn't miss the sudden sweet curve of Erik's mouth that greeted the sound, or the rush of delight in his eyes. It would’ve been so easy to feel it as well, to let it spill from Erik's mind into his heart.

Not yet. Miles to go, yet. 

But Charles reached out a hand into the chill of that night, and Erik's warm fingers found his, a promise and an echo.


End file.
